


One Is The Loneliest Number (two is better than one)

by Tetrisblock



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: First Meeting, Gen, Jails, Mentioned violence, Neglect, Pre-Canon, let me know if you would like me to tag anything else???, mentioned harassment, the guards weren't very nice to nott or caleb (but mostly nott)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 10:04:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13611075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tetrisblock/pseuds/Tetrisblock
Summary: Caleb gets thrown in jail.  Nott gets a surprise cellmate.





	One Is The Loneliest Number (two is better than one)

**Author's Note:**

> i've returned after a year of not posting (again), this time with critical role shit. this is uuuuh the first fic i've finished in over a year. wrow. anyways forgive my mistakes, no beta, we die like men.
> 
> i would Die for nott the brave let me tell you THAT. also caleb and nott's familial relationship has made me cry several times already, and i love them both dearly. honestly i wrote this because i was sad and then oh shit, i actually finished it IN ONE DAY!! also i might have uuuuuh projected my adhd onto nott, whoops.
> 
> find me on tumblr @tetrisblock (my main) or come yell at me about critical role on my cr sideblog @vvidogast Bls

It was mid-winter when Caleb was arrested and thrown face first onto the hard, wet and dingy floor of a jail cell. The guards hadn’t even undone the bindings that held his hands hostage behind his back. Caleb bites his tongue, holding back the curse and hiss of pain as he tries to inch his way into a sitting position.

He doesn’t make it far, the aches in his abused body protesting against him. _Great_ , he thinks to himself. He manages, with great effort, to roll onto his side, spitting some dirt that got into his mouth by the harsh landing. _This is what I get, I suppose._

Heaving a sigh, he accepts his circumstances as they were, he’ll figure it out later. Right now, his body feels like it’s still falling, despite knowing he’s already on solid ground. Sleep right now wouldn’t hurt any.  What else can he do in this prediciment?

What Caleb hadn’t noticed was a small creature, curled in on herself in the one far corner of the small cell. He hadn’t even heard her small whimper when the guards came around to dump him off into the cell.

\--

Nott had been in a jail cell for what felt like centuries, but she kept track of the days by the little sunlight shown into a cell across from her own. 9 days and 8 nights.

Cold. _Cold, cold cold cold cold._ The frost nipped at her through her thin, torn nightgown. The guards had stripped her of her collections as well as most of her clothing. The memory was seared into her of the guards’ smirks when they ordered her to take off her warm cloak, her bandage dressings, her leggings, down to her last few items of clothing. She knows they barely let her have that because they didn’t want to be subjected to her in all of her goblinhood. For the first couple of nights, her worn nightgown and her smallclothes were all that protected her from the biting chill.

By some sort of miracle, her boredom and innate need to do something with her hands brought her to digging into the ground with her bare hands, somehow uncovering a blanket buried into the ground. It wasn’t in great shape, but it kept her a little warmer and, most importantly, kept her alive. She’s thin and frail, barely had clothing, and it is in the middle of winter in Wildemount in a dank cellar of a jailhouse with no insulation. She knows her rate of survival without warmth would have been slim to none had she not done something. Hell, she knows her chance ain’t all that good even still.

When was the last time she ate? Hunger chewed at her stomach like a foul beast. _Wonder if that’s what starving humans think except the beast is a goblin,_ she notes to herself, a twisting in her gut telling her that’s probably true. She wouldn’t even blame them. No matter, no matter.

She believes she drank water yesterday, it could have been the day before that, the days are being smushed together and she counts it a win she even has a coherent thought at all in this state. She’ll cling onto every thought that isn’t just _tired, need food, need water, need warmth, gotta do something gotta do something GOTTA DO SOMETHING GOTTA DO SOME-_

The itch became unbearable days ago. The shaking in her hands is not just from the bitter frost threatening her fingertips, the itch plagues her very core. The itch is what landed her in this fucking jail. She acknowledges it, why won’t it just _go away_ already, she doesn’t _want_ it. Not when it leads to this mess. The itch demands her to do something with her hands. Her normal outlet for the itch is to steal trinkets, sticks, rocks, anything that catches her eye. That, or drinking. A drink. Alcohol. Gods, above, alcohol sounded good.

Nott had nothing to steal and she had no alcohol.

The itch doesn’t care. So she starts scratching at her forearms, the coarse fabric of her sleeves making the itch spread, and spread and spread and spread. She scratches the spot until her claws dig in so deep she’s bleeding and the itch spreads somewhere else, where the cycle starts over again. By the 9th day, she has scratches all up and down her arms, legs, her stomach, her face- anywhere she can reach. The trembling in her hands hasn’t gone, but the itch has subsided for the time being. She prays it stays away for a while to let these new wounds heal.

She hopes the guards stay away. Last time they came around - pouring water down her throat until she coughed most of it up onto the ground in front of her - they loudly discussed how ‘the next time they came ‘round to _it, it_ would be hanging’ and with a pointed look at her.

She hears the door from all the way from the other end creak open - _oh no no no she not strong enough to escape -_ the shuffling of many pairs of feet loudly echoing down. She huddles into the corner, making herself as small as possible, hiding the blanket she found behind her back. Her list of gods isn’t long enough for the amount of praying she needs to do.

The sound of feet stop in front of her cell. She buries herself within her twig-like arms, squeezing her eyes shut. She hears a heavy thud, the slam of the metal door, and feet shuffling away.

She still can’t bring herself to look, not for now at least

\--

Caleb wakes to the feeling of something touching him. His eyes jerk open, scanning his immediately surroundings - jail, you got arrested - and sees something scurrying away from him and cowering into the corner.

“I-I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I-I-I-” a high-pitched voice sang out between laboured breaths. He can hear sniffling, but he cannot see a face. All he can see is dark hair and green-tinted feet with sharp claws peeking out from the mostly-hidden form.

Caleb clears his throat as he sits up, bringing his hand up to his mouth - when did his bindings get removed? - and says as comforting as he can manage “I-it’s alright, it’s alright, shhh sh sh now.” He puts his hands up in an effort to show he wasn’t going to do anything. “It’s alright, uh, little one,” he reassures. The sniffling from the other continues.

“I-I didn’t mean to wake you, please don’t hurt me,” she begs, the latter half of the sentence almost too light for him to hear. She is shaking like a leaf in the wind, because of the cold, because of the guttural fear coursing through her visibly. The small figure lifts her head up, revealing large, striking yellow eyes and long pointed ears. _Goblin, she is definitely a goblin_ , he notes to himself. Yet for a goblin...he notices a dirt-covered, thin tweed blanket that is sitting in his lap currently. She’s shaking, her breath noticeable with each syllable out of her mouth, only wearing what looks to be a fraying potato-sack of a nightgown, yet she covered him with this? He still has his own smallclothes, shirt, pants, coat, socks….

Yet for a stranger he doesn’t know, let alone a _goblin_ , she has already shown him great kindness.

He thumbs the fabric of the blanket, rubbing away some of the grim. He stands, walking as quietly as he can and kneeling a foot away from her, offering the blanket out to her. “This is yours.”

The small thing had hidden herself away as soon as he stood, probably thinking the worst was going to happen to her. Once she realized no violence was coming, she finally uncovered her face, slowly sticking her hand out for the blanket. Once the fabric was in her grasp, Caleb let it go, letting her quickly cover her shivering form with it. He sits back on his heels, breathing out a sigh. He unwinds his battered scarf from his own neck, offering it to her as well.

“What’s this for?” she asks, cautious to take the item. It was being offered to her, she had no problem with taking things she definitely knew she shouldn’t have, but this...was different.

“Same reason you let me borrow your blanket, I presume,” he said easily.

“You shouldn’t let me. I...I have a problem,” she shakes her head.

“A sort of problem that doesn’t allow you to take things offered to you?” Caleb asks, carefully trying not to overstep but still trying to figure her out.

“A sort of problem that makes me take things, actually,” Nott answers, and, well, that’s surprising honest. Caleb’s not sure what he’s expecting, but at this point he should stop expecting anything that should be expected out of a goblin in a jail cell. She keeps surprising him despite him only consciously knowing her for less than 5 minutes.

“Sticky fingers, eh?”

“Yeah, sticky fingers. Reason why I’m in here in the first place, really,” she mentions. “Why’re you in the dog pound?”

“Well, I think we should maybe start with introductions, don’t you think?” he huffs out a laugh. “My name is Caleb Widogast, and what is your name?”

“Nott. Nott the Brave,” she looks down on the floor, not meeting his eyes. _Suppose it isn’t for her outstanding courage._

“Nott. Nott the Brave, let’s try to make it out of this alive, alright?” Caleb bends down to find her eyes.

“Alright,” she agrees, flashing a sharp grin with crooked, pointed teeth that almost makes Caleb recoil. He’ll have to get used to that.

**Author's Note:**

> again, come yell at me about cr on my cr sideblog @vvidogast!!


End file.
